Making It Better
by She's So High
Summary: Sometimes you can hide the pain all you want, but children are seldom stupid and there's usually no fooling them. -- an AU ficlet --


Making It Better  
By: Lady DeathAngel  
Disclaimer: not mine, not profiting, 'nuff said.  
Warnings: child abuse, language  
A/N: This is an AU ficlet that is potentially part of a larger AU fic in which Brian was there the night Justin was born. Hopefully I'll actually get around to writing it. In the meantime, in this particular storyJustin is three and Brianis fifteen. Please read, enjoy, and review.

Brian woke up to the feeling of soft hands patting his cheeks. He was pretty out of it and would have pushed the hands away, but there was a headache coming on fast and every breath he took hurt. So he settled for trying to remember where he was and why he felt like death warmed over in one of his mom's pseudo-Japanese teapots.

The latter was easy. His dad had been shit-faced and beat the hell out of him for something or another. It was getting harder to figure out just _why_ he'd gotten his chest kicked in _this_ time, so he just chalked it up to him being a smartass most of the time. As soon as his dad had passed out or left the room (he wasn't quite sure which opportunity had presented itself today) he'd taken off and ended up here, at the illustrious Taylor household and only the second safest place in the state for him (he'd have to give Mikey's house the first placeholder because whereas Jen liked his mother, Debbie did not and wouldn't let her hypocritical ass anywhere near her front door).

He could still remember Jen's bright smile when he'd shown up and said he had nothing to do so could he play with Justin for a little while? Apparently he was a godsend because she and Mr. Taylor (who he still didn't trust for the simple fact that he had that same strange aura as his mother) had wanted to go out for the night and their other babysitter had bailed. He said it'd be no problem and he could stay as long as she needed.

She'd only asked him in passing about the bruise on his face, while she was walking out of the house and double-checking her purse for her wallet and keys.

"You didn't get into a fight did you?"

He'd shrugged.

"Um, not really."

She smiled.

"Well, did you win?"

He couldn't exactly say that, no, he hadn't won. That would be the kind of buzz-kill that those depressed, anarchy preaching, anti-establishment, anti-life goth types at school got hard over. So he just grinned and said, "Yeah."

She smiled that smile that Justin had inherited, the big bright one, and left giving him a kiss on the cheek.

He tried to remember what had happened after that. He'd checked on Justin who was taking a nap and . . . he'd crashed in the little boy's room on his floor amid the stuffed animals relegated to the floor because they were gifts from crazy aunts and scary grandparents. It seemed, he thought as the hands continued to pet his face, that he hadn't moved. He let the hands continue their ministrations for a few minutes before he finally got the energy to crack an eye open.

Justin's baby-blues were inches from his own eyes and they were glittering _really_ funny. Brian thought it was maybe because he was as good as high, he'd been hit so hard. But then he realized that the boy was crying and _that_ was why his pupils looked like they were swimming in his sockets.

"Hey," he said, grimacing at how hoarse his voice was. "What's wrong?"

Justin sniffled.

"You're hurt," he said simply.

Brian shook his head.

"It's not too bad," he said.

"But you're all purple here," Justin touched his own cheek. "And here." He touched his chest, covered by a miniature Dartmouth sweatshirt.

"I'm fine."

Justin frowned.

"Does it hurt bad?"

Brian shook his head and Justin, with a stubborn set to his face jabbed him hard in the ribs. A dull ache sharpened to the point of total conscious consumption and Brian hissed.

"Fuck."

"See?" the little boy demanded. "It hurts bad."

Brian couldn't argue. One, because he was too busy catching his breath to be able to formulate a proper sentence, and two, because Justin wasn't that stupid. He would never convince him he was okay and he couldn't _pretend_ it either. He was trying to think of something to saw when he felt his shirt being lifted.

"You're too skinny," Justin commented, examining the skin with the soft pads of his fingers.

"How do you know?" Brian asked, amused despite the situation.

"My mommy says so."

"Oh."

He bit his lip when Justin pressed too hard on a sore spot and stiffened. The boy softened his touch and looked up with sad eyes.

"'m sorry," he said. "I'm sorry I hurt you before too. But you coulda told me it hurt."

Brian shrugged.

"It's not your problem."

Justin huffed in the way of three-year-olds and leaned closer to inspect the bruise on his chest. Brian glanced down and made a face. It was purple alright, but blackish-blue as well. In two days it would be yellowish-green on top of everything else. It was the kind of sight that he'd never gotten used to, the kind that disgusted him every time he saw it. Justin didn't seem disgusted, however. He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the discolored skin. Brian frowned down at the top of his blonde head as Justin pulled his shirt back down and patted it gently.

Then he was leaning toward his face and Brian moved back slightly.

"What're you doing?"

"Mommy always kisses it better when I'm hurt. And then she saws I should rest if it's really bad and she sings me asleep."

Brian didn't have a reply for that so he let Justin press soft lips to his bruised cheek and wondered at the care the boy took. Usually his kisses were big and wet sloppy smacks that left smears of spit on his face. This was just pursed lips and lightly exhaled breath as he moved away that tickled slightly. Justin continued to fuss over him, little hands pushing Brian's longish hair back and out of his eyes and situating him so his back was resting against the wall.

"You rest now," he said.

Brian watched him stand up and move to his bed. He grabbed his favorite blanket (the biggest, warmest, softest, fluffiest blanket ever, or so he insisted) and made his way back to the teen. Justin took five minutes covering them both up and making himself comfortable. He curled into Brian's chest, his body between his outstretched legs, and started to sing.

"Jus, what're you doing?"

The boy reached up, one hand over Brian's mouth, the other forcibly closing his eyes.

"Shh," he said. "I'm singing you asleep!"

Brian sighed but kept his eyes closed and tightened his arms around Justin's body. The initial pain of having the boy settled on his bruise had faded and he listened intently to his singing. The songs were familiar in tune, but Justin had apparently made up his own words. Brian didn't mean to drift off to sleep again, but somewhere between a little boy's rendition of 'Stayin Alive' and 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' (he'd ask where he'd heard those particular songs later) he was out like a light with the softest of smiles on his face.

Brian pretends the bruises don't hurt. But 15-year-old boys just looking for a safe place to hide are no match for the guileless 3-year-olds who love them.


End file.
